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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357781">Stars of Lovingness in His Hair</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshCommaMan/pseuds/AshCommaMan'>AshCommaMan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domesticity, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, the intimacy of someone tuoching your hair</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:35:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,590</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357781</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshCommaMan/pseuds/AshCommaMan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley stops cutting his hair after the apocawasn't, but in the years he's had hair above his shoulders, he's forgotten how annoying it is to manage.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>147</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Stars of Lovingness in His Hair</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>In the months following the apocalypse that never happened, Crowley stopped cutting his hair. When it reached the bottom of his chin, Aziraphale asked why he hadn’t cut it. What Crowley </span>
  <em>
    <span>told</span>
  </em>
  <span> him was that it was because he wasn’t bothering to cut it, now that he didn’t have to look professional. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> reason, however, was because Aziraphale had made an offhand comment about how much he liked Crowley’s hair long, like it had been at Golgatha, or in Eden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, if he really wanted to, he could wave his hand and grow it to the exact length he wanted, but something told him it would be a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> obvious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Didn’t stop him from making his hair grow slightly </span>
  <em>
    <span>faster</span>
  </em>
  <span>, though. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Within a year of the War being repelled by an eleven-year-old pissed off at having a shithead for a biological parent, Crowley’s hair was down to the bottom of his shoulder blades. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since it had been so long since he had had so much hair, he had forgotten how much of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>pain</span>
  </em>
  <span> it was to keep it out of the way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found it getting blown into his face and mouth as he worked in the garden outside the cottage he and Aziraphale shared, or plastered literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>all over</span>
  </em>
  <span> his chest and back when he showered (don’t even get him started on the amount of shedding he did), getting into his soup bowl, and just generally being an inconvenience. This caused him to start primarily wearing it in a loose bun that only partially fixed the problem, since braiding it was such a hassle and something he only did to small sections of his hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley is sitting on the floor in the living room with Golden Girls on the TV, his fists full of hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smell of cinnamon and dough comes from the kitchen; Aziraphale is baking a loaf as he cooks dinner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his third attempt, he growls in frustration and falls backward, laying spread-eagle and staring at the ceiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the matter, dear?” Aziraphale’s voice calls, floating along with the scent of bread and cut vegetables. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My bloody hair! I want to braid it, but there’s too much of it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t you just cut it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley can practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> the look on Aziraphale’s face as he says this: smiling in that angelically smug way, eyes trained on his work, ready to poke and prod at him in a way that will always provide him plausible deniability so as not to tarnish his Most Holy Reputation. Just the thought of it makes his face heat up and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> there’s red crawling up his neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to cut it, Angel. I like it this length. I just don’t like having to braid it myself. It’s too bloody difficult.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he knows it, Aziraphale is looking down at him, bent over slightly to see him over the expanse of his belly— the soft warmth Crowley has fantasized about being able to touch for years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t you sit up and I’ll braid it for you?” he asks, innocent as ever, as if he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>know what effect such an offer will have on Crowley’s bodily functions and mental processing ability. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, oh— ngk— mkay, Angel, sure, if you like…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits up as Aziraphale settles into his reading chair, transplanted from the flat above the bookshop beside a yucca plant from Crowley’s flat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoots into the opening made between Aziraphale’s knees, trying to stifle the beating of a heart he swears he doesn’t have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Comb?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley reaches forward and hands Aziraphale the comb he had left on the carpet. Aziraphale begins combing his hair with a tenderness Crowley doesn’t think he’s felt in his six-thousand-odd years of life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, I’ve never braided hair, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> made challah, so I do know the general ins and outs,” he says, his voice as quiet and gentle as his fingers against Crowley’s scalp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuts his eyes and contains the urge to whimper. Just a year ago, such intimacy would have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>unthinkable</span>
  </em>
  <span>. No matter how much Crowley craved it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yearned</span>
  </em>
  <span> for it, Aziraphale never would have allowed it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, he never would have allowed for the two of them renting a cottage in the countryside as they enjoyed their retirement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do let me know if I’m tugging too hard,” Aziraphale says, reaching forward and brushing a runaway lock back to the fold, his fingers stroking his cheek— surely by accident. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley's vocal cords malfunction for a moment. “Hn— nope, you’re good, Angel, ‘ssss fine,” he manages, voice strangled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright, dear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not trusting his voice again, he just says, “Mmhmm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last few braids pass in silence, and then Aziraphale’s hand appears out of Crowley’s periphery. “Hair tie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls it off his wrist and hands it to Aziraphale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel ties off the bottom of the braid and pats Crowley on the shoulder. He stands up, though his knees feel weak beneath him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale stands, straightens his shirt, and smiles at him— oblivious as he has been for centuries. “Well,” he says. “I think that braid looks lovely. I’ll go check on dinner. Shouldn’t be long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley watches him depart, swallowing hard. His fingers twitch at his sides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a few short strides he’s across the hall and into the kitchen. “Angel,” he says, managing to stop himself short — if only because Aziraphale is pulling a hot pan out of the oven. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale looks up at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh, would you like to set the table?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh? No! Er— in a moment, alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sets the pan on the counter and takes off the oven mitts. “If you insist, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley closes the distance between them, but doesn’t quite touch him. Words never have been his strong suit, but now they’re spilling out of him at a rate he can’t control. “Aziraphale I’ve loved you since bloody </span>
  <em>
    <span>41 AD </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I haven’t been able to tell you because I know you don’t feel the same way and we were on opposite sides or whatever but if you don’t feel the same way will you</span>
  <em>
    <span> please</span>
  </em>
  <span> do me the courtesy of not being so </span>
  <em>
    <span>excruciatingly wonderful </span>
  </em>
  <span>that it makes me lose track of my own brain?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale stares at him in shock, eyes wide. “Oh—” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s face burns. An eon of friendship and he’s completely undone by— by what? Aziraphale braiding his hair? A touch to his cheek? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Embarrassing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He searches for a way out. They </span>
  <em>
    <span>live</span>
  </em>
  <span> together, there’s no way he can run away from this unless he wants to move back to </span>
  <em>
    <span>London</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Eugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale, for probably the first time in his life, seems struck speechless. “I— I had no idea you felt that way, Crowley.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Here it comes, the rejection</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Already something deep and ugly is roaring to life in Crowley’s chest and, were it physically possible, he’d probably throw up right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t have— sprung it on you like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no dear boy, that’s not what I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles, and he looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>sheepish</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Aziraphale looking sheepish should be illegal, Crowley thinks, because he’s so gorgeous in this moment Crowley wants to jump in a pool of holy water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He awkwardly adjusts the paper towel holder on the counter. “The whole reason I offered to braid your hair in the first place was— well, I was testing the waters, I suppose you could say. To see if you responded in the way I… well, this is going to sound vain, but… the way I wanted you to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The way you wanted me to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was… flirting. I suppose you could say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley stands very still, like he’s been caught in the gaze of a mongoose intent on eating him. “Flirting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I’m not entirely unfamiliar with the concept, you know. Is that… alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, given my outburst just now, I’d say it was more than alright, Angel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale lets out a breath. “In that case, at the risk of impropriety” — Crowley nearly laughs out loud at that — “would it be alright if I asked to kiss you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gjngk— that’d be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. May I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘F’you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale smiles and takes one of his hands. The other cups his face and brings it close. Crowley’s eyes flutter shut and he bathes in the light and the warmth of Aziraphale, his Angel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he starts kissing him back, unoccupied hand on the counter for support.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their kiss is interrupted as the oven timer goes off, signaling the end of the bread’s baking time. Crowley reminds himself to cuss the oven out as soon as Aziraphale is next gone from home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel pulls away and brings the loaf out onto a metal rack to cool. Crowley watches like he’s been hypnotized. He never thought it would happen, but he’s jealous of a loaf of </span>
  <em>
    <span>bread</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale turns back to him and smiles, something distinctly unkind twinkling in his eyes. “What’s the matter, Crowley?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley coughs and gets into the cupboard. “Nothing, Angel. Just gonna go set the table before the dinner gets cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pair of arms wrap around his waist. Aziraphale brushes the braid over his shoulder to kiss the nape of his neck. “After dinner, we can kiss all you like. After all, we only have the rest of our lives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah—,” Crowley says eloquently as Aziraphale pulls away. “Alright, if you say so, Angel.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading!! As always, please let me know your thoughts, and if you have a request for a ficlet, drop it in my inbox at the-voice-of-night-vale.tumblr.com (read my request info first though!)</p><p>The title is from the song "White Queen (As it Began)" by Queen.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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